


Mate and Dulce de Leche

by hpdm4ever, MessiFangirl (hpdm4ever)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: El Clásico, FC Barcelona, Football | Soccer, Hotel Sex, M/M, Rare Pairings, Real Madrid CF, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:29:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9007309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/hpdm4ever, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/MessiFangirl
Summary: Messi tilts his head back slightly so that he can look up at Sergio. He clears his throat. “Yes,” he says again. “The thing is,” he says, trailing off. His cheeks are flushing more now, and it’s clear that he’s embarrassed. But he doesn’t look away from Sergio. “I’m here to finish what you started,” he says all in a rush.Sergio freezes. “What?”Messi looks mortified, but he powers on. “In the tunnel,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “When it was just the two of us. Before you decided to call over the trainers.” He licks his lips and Sergio finds himself staring at how pink they are.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeoDios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeoDios/gifts).



> For LeoDios, who is helping me rectify the fact that there are not many Sergio/Leo fics out there. Hope you all enjoy! Happy Holidays!!

Sergio’s still feeling the adrenaline. It’s not just scoring the goal, although a last minute goal never fails to wreak havoc on his body. But it’s the fact that it’s El Clásico—one of the biggest games of the season. And at Camp Nou, too!

It’ll be awhile before he calms down.

The same can be said for the rest of the players. And unfortunately, though he’s tried to keep everyone calm, some people have decided to push things a little too far. It’s why he’s in the thick of things, charging into the group inside the tunnel to keep Piqué and Mascherano from throttling Dani and Karim. He doesn’t know who started it, but he’s certainly going to end it.

Unfortunately, he has to fight to get there, squeezing through a gap next to Marcelo and Neymar, who have also decided they’re angry for some reason or another.

But just before he reaches Piqué, someone slams into him before bouncing back into the fray.

Sergio cusses, thrown off balance and knocked to the side. He’s only barely able to put his hands up in time to keep from completely slamming his face into the wall. As it is, the force still causes him to fall roughly against someone in his way. He hears a grunt, and looks down to see dark eyes blinking up at him in confusion.

“You okay?” Sergio asks, arms still bracketing Lionel Messi’s body. For however physical they are out on the pitch, he knows that he’s actually quite larger than Messi and probably knocked the wind out of him. They’re chest to chest now, smashed together as the fight still goes on all around them.

At Sergio’s question, though, Messi’s lungs look like they start working again. The smaller man nods hesitantly, raising a hand to his head. The blond hair is soaked with sweat, spiking up in every direction, and Messi goes to tug on it before stopping.

Sergio watches him, slightly concerned now.

He’d been overjoyed when Keylor had punched that ball out of the air during the last few frenzied moments of the game, but he’d also thought that maybe Messi had gotten caught when he’d jumped for the header.

And now Sergio’s just thrown him up against the wall.

“Leo?” Sergio asks, watching as the Messi closes his eyes and rubs at the back of his head.

Messi hums, but he seems dazed.

Sergio leans down to peer at him closely. “Did you just hit your head, Leo?” he asks, wondering if Messi’s pupils are the right size. But Messi’s eyes are shut. “Open your eyes,” he orders, trying to use his strongest captain voice.

Messi doesn’t open his eyes, but he smiles. “You sound like Puyi,” he says faintly.

Sergio grins. There’s a burst of pride that starts to bubble inside of him before he realizes that he needs to get a grip. “You would have listened to him, though,” Sergio teases, dropping a hand to Messi’s chin. “Open your eyes, eh? Let me see.”

Messi opens his eyes.

Sergio’s fingers tilt Messi’s chin up, trying to see if they look strange. Messi stares back at him, dark lashes seeming unbelievably long. Sergio’s momentarily distracted by them before he remembers he’s supposed to be looking at Messi’s pupils. He shakes his head and focuses, but finds that there isn’t enough light.

Still, he continues to study Messi’s face, his gaze trailing from those dark eyes to the flushed cheeks, the pink lips peeking through the beard…

Messi says something then, something Sergio can’t hear. Messi stares at him and then mumbles again in that soft slurry drawl of his, and this time Sergio catches it: “The cameras, Sergio.”

Sergio clucks his tongue. He drops his hands from Messi’s face and then slings an arm around him. “Come on, then,” he says, carefully helping Messi up the steps and then ducking around the corner and out of sight from the main tunnel. They’re on the side of Real Madrid’s dressing room, though it doesn’t really matter so long as they’re hidden.

Messi leans against the wall again, though, as if he’s having trouble standing up.

“Was it me or Keylor?” Sergio asks, leaning beside him, keeping an eye out for somebody who can help him.

Messi reaches up and touches his head again, feeling his forehead tentatively before sliding his hand back through his hair and wincing. “Ahh,” he says as he touches what is apparently a sore spot. “Both of you, I think,” he murmurs, dropping his hand. “I’ll be alright.”

Sergio sighs. He’s still running hot, still feeling the adrenaline, but there’s a flicker of guilt that runs down his spine. “Sorry,” he offers, trying to think of something better to say.

“Not your fault,” Messi says. He turns those dark eyes on Sergio. “Not like when you fouled me in the middle of the game, eh?”

Sergio straightens up. “Now wait just one second,” he says, his guilt disappearing instantly.

But Messi just smiles and reaches out to touch Sergio’s arm. He tugs on the sleeve slightly. “I’m just kidding,” he says quietly. His hand smooths down Sergio’s forearm and pats once before falling to his side.

Sergio laughs. He looks down at where Messi touched his arm. “Didn’t think you had a sense of humor,” he says, feeling his skin still tingling. “Thought they beat that out of you at La Masia, no?”

Messi’s smile doesn’t fade, though he reaches up to rub at his forehead again. “I have a sense of humor,” he protests, fingers probing at his temple cautiously. “Have to have one if I’m hanging around Geri.”

At the mention of Piqué, Sergio rolls his eyes. That reminds him, the last time he saw his friend, Gerard was attempting to throttle someone.

“I should probably,” Sergio says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. He looks back towards the tunnel and then down at Messi again, wondering if he should leave the other man. “You know, captainly things,” he says, watching at Messi’s hand moves to the back of his head.

Messi hums, eyes fixed on Sergio. “Of course,” he says quietly. “I understand.”

Sergio nods, staring as Messi’s fingers smooth through some of his blond hair. “Right,” he says, knowing he should walk away now.

But Messi’s head is tilted to the side, and Sergio finds himself unable to look way from that long white throat as Messi swallows.

“Right,” Sergio repeats, jerking his head up. Except this time, his eyes fall upon Messi’s mouth again. They’re so pink… Plump…

As if feeling his gaze, Messi flicks his tongue out to lick his lips. “Sergio?”

Sergio leans down, closer to Messi, closer to his face. He’s not sure what’s come over him, but he has the strangest desire to taste. To press Messi against the wall again, this time gently, and hold him there while he takes what he wants.

And as Sergio thinks this, Messi merely stares back at him, his lips wet and shiny, mouth parting in surprise.

Karim bumps into them from behind then, shaking Sergio out of his reverie and forcing him into Messi’s body again. “Sorry, guys,” Karim says, pushing past him to go down the hallway.

Sergio looks down to where he’s pressed against Messi. This time, Messi has a hand up against Sergio’s chest, fingers flattening over the crest of his jersey.

Sergio wonders if Messi can feel his heartbeat.

“Sorry,” Sergio says again, still unable to look away from Messi’s mouth. He knows he should move, knows he should step away, but he finds he can’t do any of those things.

And then Messi licks his lips again. “Sergio?” he asks once more, seeming confused. “What—,” he starts, his other hand rubbing at his head.

It’s like a bucket of cold water is dumped over Sergio, and he instantly takes a step back from Messi. He looks over and waves a hand, getting the attention of one of Barcelona’s medical staff. “He’s not okay,” Sergio informs the man gruffly, and soon the trainer is joined by two others who practically run to join them once they see that their talisman may be hurt.

Sergio walks away then, goes back to the main tunnel to make sure that the fighting has stopped.

Piqué is sulking like he just got yelled at, and Sergio grins when he sees Iniesta is giving Dani a talking-to as well. Knowing that Andrés has things well in hand, he turns to go to his locker room. He passes the trainers on the way back, all of them with arms underneath Messi’s elbows as they guide the smaller man over to Barcelona’s side.

Sergio doesn’t say anything, walks by as if he couldn’t care less. But once they pass, he turns and watches them until they disappear down Barcelona’s hallway and out of sight.

After that, things blur together. He goes back and celebrates in the locker room with the team. He gives Zidane the biggest hug he can muster. He does his interviews and tries to keep the smile off of his face, though he pretty much fails at that. But the truth is, they salvaged a point—and he’d almost given up hope.

And a draw? Against Barcelona? At Camp Nou?

\- Sergio would take that result any day of the week. And he repeats that to anyone who asks if he’s disappointed with the tie. He repeats it to his teammates when they talk about what could have been. And he reminds them that it was almost a loss, and things would be very different indeed if he hadn’t scored that last minute goal. There’s some mumbling and grumbling, but most people are as happy as he is.

There’s more complaining about the weather, really, because it turns out that things are too messy for them to travel home. Sergio makes a face but sucks it up, mentioning that staying overnight in Barcelona for one night won’t kill them.

Their hotel is just as good as any other, and Sergio is quick to return to his room—eager for sleep. Luckily he has the room to himself—senior captain’s privileges according to Zidane. It probably isn’t a very captainly thing to do—running to his room before anyone can complain—but Sergio doesn’t care. He is a tiny bit annoyed, though, after he changes into a pair of sweatpants and hops into bed, that there’s a knock on the door.

He throws it open without checking the peep-hole. “What?” he asks, trying to stay calm.

Lionel Messi blinks back at him.

As Sergio stares at him, Messi’s eyes flick down to take in his bare chest and low-slung sweats.

Meanwhile, Messi’s wearing a hoodie over his blond hair, and a dark jacket on top of that. Sergio holds in a laugh. As if those clothes were really going to help him blend in amongst the people of Barcelona. Still, apparently he got this far without a horde of fans following him… Although, that might be due to Real Madrid’s security.

Sergio clears his throat. “What do you want?”

“Can I come in?” Messi asks, his voice as soft as ever. His eyes go back up Sergio’s body, a flush appearing on his cheeks as if he’s embarrassed at being caught.

The truth is, Sergio’s getting cold just standing in the hallway. “Yeah, alright,” he allows, moving to the side and letting Messi in. He lets the door fall closed behind them. When Messi’s inside and has lowered his hood, Sergio crosses his arms. “What are you doing here?”

Messi’s hand goes to tug on his hair.

That, at least, Sergio recognizes as a familiar gesture. “Thought they’d have you in bubble wrap by now,” Sergio says, surprised when Messi smiles at him.

“I don’t have a concussion,” Messi says, letting go of his hair so he can shrug off his jacket. He casually drapes it over the desk. “Could have told you that, before. If you hadn’t thrown the trainers at me, that is.” He smiles wryly then. “Thanks for that, by the way. I really, really enjoyed all of those tests.”

Sergio shrugs, unapologetic. “I don’t mess around with head injuries,” he says, leaning against the wall. After a minute, he realizes he looks defensive, so he drops his arms to his sides. He sticks his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats. “Is that why you’re here?” he jokes. “To thank me?”

Messi’s eyes follow his fingers. “No,” he says quietly. He jerks his head up and then spins awkwardly around the room. “I’m just in time, I see,” he mumbles. “Catching you before bed, no?”

Sergio furrows his brows and tries to hide his confusion. “Well, it is late,” he says, still trying to understand why Messi is here.

Messi scuffs his shoes on the carpet and hums. “Yes,” he agrees, looking at the messy covers of the bed. “It is late.” He seems to waver, turning to Sergio like he’s going to say something, but then saying nothing. His hand goes up to play with his hair again.

Finally, Sergio doesn’t know what else to do.

“Why are you here, Leo?” he asks outright, taking a step towards the other man. He looks at the clock on the television and then takes another step closer to that they can get to the bottom of this. The sooner Messi answers, the sooner Sergio can get back into bed.

Messi tilts his head back slightly so that he can look up at Sergio. He clears his throat. “Yes,” he says again. “The thing is,” he says, trailing off. His cheeks are flushing more now, and it’s clear that he’s embarrassed. But he doesn’t look away from Sergio. “I’m here to finish what you started,” he says all in a rush.

Sergio freezes. “What?”

Messi looks mortified, but he powers on. “In the tunnel,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “When it was just the two of us. Before you decided to call over the trainers.” He licks his lips and Sergio finds himself staring at how pink they are.

“You acted like—like—,” Messi says, before he breaks off, shaking his head. “Maybe not,” he admits, when Sergio doesn’t say anything. He turns away, reaching for his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I was wrong. Forget it. I’ll go.”

“Stop,” Sergio orders, grabbing his wrist.

They stay like that for a minute, Sergio trying to wrap his mind around what just happened. He can feel Messi’s pulse underneath his fingertips, and it’s racing like they’ve just finished a match. But Messi still won’t look at him, and Sergio knows he has to fix this.

Because if Messi is saying what Sergio thinks he is saying…

“You—?” Sergio says, pressing up behind Messi. He drops Messi’s arm and palms his hip instead. Sergio can feel the warmth of his body even through the hoodie Messi’s still wearing. His hand molds around Messi’s side and Sergio wants to laugh.

It never fails to astound him how small the other man is.

Messi’s the one who’s silent, now, lips pressed tightly together, face still turned away. He’s practically trembling against Sergio, heart still beating like crazy.

“I wanted to kiss you,” Sergio confesses, his other arm snaking around Messi’s waist to hold him there. “In the tunnel, I almost did it.” He does laugh then. “If you hadn’t mentioned the cameras, I would have done it right there…”

Messi takes a deep breath, letting it out shakily.

“And then, when we were out of sight,” Sergio continues, angling his head so he can say it gently into Messi’s ear, “I wanted to kiss you again.” He dips down and lets his lips graze against the lobe. “You would have let me, no?” he asks, starting to grin as Messi gasps. He spins Messi around.

Messi’s hands go to his shoulders, clinging to Sergio like he’s dazed again. His chest is heaving like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. But his eyes are steady, sparkling with want. “I’ll let you now, too,” he breathes, lips parting in anticipation.

Sergio’s hands tighten on Messi’s hips. He thinks he might be dreaming, but he doesn’t care. “Fucking right you will,” he murmurs. He slides a hand up Messi’s spine and tugs his hair back.

And then he kisses him.

Messi’s lips are everything Sergio has ever wanted, and they’re both moaning as Sergio takes what’s offered. It’s hot and wet and all lips and teeth and tongue, and neither of them can really breathe—but it doesn’t matter. Messi’s beard scrapes against his jaw, and Sergio groans in response.

He pulls back, reaching to yank Messi’s hoodie over his head. “Get this off,” he demands, barely waiting for Messi to comply as he reaches for the t-shirt underneath, too. And then Messi’s bare to the waist, that thin, muscled form beckoning him to touch. “Very nice,” he says, trailing his fingers down Messi’s abs, tracing the defined muscles gleefully.

Messi laughs, licking his lips as his stomach contracts at the brush of Sergio’s fingertips. “Not as nice as yours,” he demurs, his hands flattening against Sergio’s stomach, tracing the lines that Sergio’s worked so hard to keep.

Sergio grins. “Eh, I know,” he boasts, laughing when Messi doesn’t seem offended. He slides his hands up Messi’s body, thumbs smoothing over the little peaked nipples. Messi inhales sharply and Sergio does it again. “Sensitive, hmmm?” he asks, not waiting for an answer. He ducks down and takes one into his mouth, teasingly sucking while Messi squirms against him. It’s not until Messi’s fingernails start digging into his back that he raises his head. “Should I suck something else?” Sergio asks, licking his lips.

Messi’s pupils are huge, his mouth red and swollen from Sergio’s earlier kisses. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out except a whimper.

Sergio chuckles. “Come on, then,” he says, manhandling Messi over to the bed, and pushing him down. It should be funny—pushing Lionel Messi down on a bed as opposed to the pitch. But it’s nothing like during the game, especially with how easily Messi lets himself be positioned.

Messi falls on his back docilely, legs splayed attractively. “Don’t tell Geri,” he warns, lifting his hips and sliding as Sergio starts to tug off his jeans. “He’ll never let it go.”

Sergio shrugs, tossing Messi’s jeans over the side of the bed. He admires the sight of Messi just in a pair of black briefs, and then crawls on top of him. “Alright,” he agrees, hissing as he grinds his hips against Messi’s. “Not sure he’d believe me, anyway.” He noses along Messi’s neck and then nips at a spot under his ear. Messi arches in response and Sergio grins, nipping harder. “You’ll have to explain some of these marks, though, eh?”

Messi scratches his nails down Sergio’s back. “Same,” he whispers hotly, his foot rubbing against Sergio’s calf.

Sergio pulls back to look at him, taking in the rosy cheeks and plump lips. Messi’s scruff is darker in the dim light, and Sergio can almost forget that it’s really ginger. Either way, he gets distracted again as he takes in Messi’s eyes—how hazy they are from arousal. “Alright,” Sergio says again, forcing himself to blink before he’s lost in them.

Messi grins then, licking his lips.

And Sergio rolls his eyes, having to dive down to kiss him again as punishment. This time it’s noisy, and he sucks and bites and grinds down at the same time until Messi’s pulling away and moaning.

“You want to?” Messi asks, tilting his head all the way back and stretching. He asks like he isn't sure of the answer--like he can't feel Sergio's cock pulsing against his. Then he spreads his thighs wider and pushes up against Sergio in case Sergio didn’t catch his meaning.

Sergio groans. “Oh fuck, yes,” he mutters, leaning back so that he can peel Messi’s briefs down his legs. “Like Christmas has come early,” he breathes, smoothing his hands up Messi’s thighs. “Fuck, look at you.” He sits back on his heels. “Listen,” he says, reaching up to scratch his chin.

Messi leans back on his elbows. “Yeah?” he asks, looking apprehensive as if Sergio’s changed his mind.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Sergio says, skimming his eyes up Messi’s body—taking in the lush thighs, the thick cock, the flush that’s starting to travel down Messi’s chest.

“Yeah?” Messi asks again, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

Sergio smiles. “Can you turn over?” He claps his hands on either side of Messi’s thighs, sliding them down to cup Leo’s ass. “I mean your face is great and all, but I just *really* wanna get a better look at this.”

Messi laughs, throwing a hand over his eyes. “I see,” he says, sounding amused and embarrassed at the same time. “Just want me for my ass.”

Sergio freezes. "Not just," he says quickly, trying to make sure Messi believes him. "Of course not just that." He squeezes as much as he can fit in his hands. “I mean, it is a pretty great ass,” he says, enjoying the way Messi jolts underneath him. "But the rest of you is pretty great too." He lets go and kneels up, tugging his sweats down so he can drop them on top of Messi’s jeans. “Did you bring something?” he asks, hovering over Messi’s clothing.

Messi drops his hand and grins naughtily. “In my pocket, yes,” he admits.

“Confident, were you?” Sergio asks, finding the tube of lube and returning to his previous position. He twirls his finger, indicating he wants Messi to roll onto his stomach.

Messi’s face flushes even more than Sergio thought possible, but the smaller man complies, turning until he’s on his hands and knees. “I just thought, you might be interested,” he says, sounding out of breath. His hands clench in the sheets and goosebumps spread out over his skin. “I like to be prepared.”

Sergio laughs. “I’m very interested,” he says, looking at the plump cheeks on display in front of him. He tries to cup them, rolling and squeezing even though he can’t fit most of them into his hands. “Fuck,” he says, imagining sliding between them. “I’ve always wanted to touch you like this,” he admits, thinking back to all the times he could have stolen a caress during their games. “Distracted me a few times.”

Messi shivers as Sergio spreads him apart. “Yeah?” he asks shakily.

Sergio coats a few fingers with lube and then presses one gently against Messi’s entrance. “Not that I wanted to fuck you,” he explains, taking a deep breath as he massages lightly, getting Messi used to the sensation. “Just wanted to cop a feel.”

Messi presses his forehead to the bed. “Maybe you should have,” he breathes, panting as Sergio increases the pressure and sinks a finger inside him.

“Shit,” Sergio says, feeling how tight Messi is. Tight and hot and he’s adding another finger before he knows what he’s doing.

Messi lets out a deep breath, but doesn’t stop him.

Sergio slows his actions, smoothing a hand up Messi’s spine. “Sorry,” he says, carefully starting to scissor. “Got excited.” He takes his time, trying to do everything right, starting to stretch Messi and adequately prepare him.

Messi laughs, turning his face to the side so he can peer at Sergio. “It’s alright,” he says, licking his lips. He spreads his thighs wider, arching his spine. “I’ll let you know if you do something I don’t like.”

“Good,” Sergio says, making sure his fingers are sliding in and out without too much friction, before he adds a third. “Tell me if I can make it better,” he says, carefully moving them in and out, in and out, until he finds that little spot that makes Messi’s start moving back to meet him.

“It’s good,” Messi pants. “Now, now, now,” he orders. “You can make it better, now!”

Sergio grins, removing his fingers. “Such a cute little dictator.” He slicks up his cock and tosses the tube down the other end of the bed in case he needs more. “Whatever you say,” he murmurs, grabbing Messi by the hip and pressing into him. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he growls as he sinks into that tight, velvety heat. “You feel so fucking good!”

Messi gasps, hands gripping the sheets harder. “Ohhhhhh,” he moans, lips parted as Sergio settles into him.

Sergio starts to move in and out, focusing on going slowly and deeply, hitting that special spot on each downward stroke. He’s rewarded with Messi whimpering each time. “So fucking good,” Sergio says, hands tightening on Messi’s hips. He wants to hold onto Messi’s hips forever, but at the same time, he wants to touch everything. His hands palm Messi’s ass again, watching as his cock pulls almost all the way out before sinking back into that tight heat. “So fucking good,” he repeats.

“Sergio!” Messi breathes, yanking on the sheets underneath him and shifting on his hands and knees. He’s starting to sweat, his blond hair looking more and more like it did when they’d met in the hallway.

“Leo!” Sergio answers, pulling Messi upright. He starts to snap his hips harder, at the same time, reaching around to grasp Messi’s cock. It’s red and angry, leaking all over Messi’s stomach. “How’s that, eh?” He pumps him slowly at first, thumb smoothing over the head, and then harder and in time to how he’s moving his hips. He’d meant to suck Messi off, but in his haste, he’d forgotten.

Still, this is just as good.

Messi reaches behind his head, clinging to Sergio’s neck. “Fucking shut up,” he pants out, laughing. “Oh, fuck!” he groans when Sergio twists his hand just right.

“We should do this after every game,” Sergio says, biting gently where Messi’s neck meets his shoulder. Messi groans again and squirms against him. Sergio grins and does it again, nibbling and sucking until there’s a bright red mark stark against Messi’s skin. “Of course, you’d probably have to explain it to Piqué, then,” he laughs.

Messi yanks his head away, hands trying to claw the back of Sergio’s neck. “Oh my god, how did I forget that you talk so much.” His hands keep slipping, both of them dripping with sweat, and eventually he just leans back against Sergio’s chest. “Shut up and fuck me already,” he murmurs.

Sergio laughs and pinches one of Messi’s nipples, rolling the little bud between his fingers to make him gasp. Then he nudges him forward onto his hands and knees again. “What do you think I’ve been doing?” he pants out, steadying Messi with a hand sliding up his spine. He stops talking then and gets back to it, snapping his hips harder and harder, rocking Messi forward with each stroke, those plump cheeks bouncing with each thrust. Messi is moaning louder now, louder than Sergio’s ever heard him, and Sergio spares a thought for his neighbors before realizing that he doesn’t give a shit.

Sergio can tell when Messi is close—he starts tightening around Sergio and trembling against the sheets. His skin is gorgeously flushed, no longer that familiar pale white. Little whimpers and gasps start coming out of his mouth instead of moans, interspersed with indecipherable mumblings. Sergio knows he’s seconds from coming. But Sergio’s never been good at keeping his mouth shut, so he asks anyway, “Are you close, Leo? Are you going to come for me?” At the same time, he makes sure each thrust hits that perfect little spot.

And Messi comes instantly, spilling all over the sheets in front of them, spilling all over Sergio’s hand when he reaches around to stroke him through it. It’s wet and sticky and Sergio continues to massage him until Messi’s moaning from over sensitivity and pushing his hand away.

Sergio laughs again, focusing on his own pleasure now. It only takes a minute, especially with Messi still trembling and squeezing around him. He grunts Messi’s name, biting into his shoulder to prevent from saying anything more, jerking his hips until he’s emptied himself. Then he reaches down and separates them, only barely managing to collapse next to Messi instead of on top of him. “Mmmm,” he says in contentment, heart racing as his body tries to come down. “Now I’m really tired,” he says, watching the way Messi hides a smile into the sheets.

Messi looks tired, too, though, and Sergio’s reminded again of the fact that they both played an extremely draining game earlier. There are little shadows bruised underneath Messi’s dark eyes, suddenly more evident than before.

“You should stay,” Sergio says, louder than he means to.

Messi looks startled, widening his eyes. He opens his mouth, seeming like he’s going to argue.

“We’re leaving early,” Sergio explains, lowering his voice. He reaches over slowly and grabs Messi’s arm, pulling gently until Messi starts shuffling closer. When Messi’s close enough, Sergio wraps an arm around him. “Stay and we’ll have breakfast in bed, eh?” he asks, trying to use his captainly voice again.

Messi laughs, the sound muffled into Sergio’s chest now. “Do you really think that voice works on me?” he asks. But he snuggles closer, his knee moving between Sergio’s thighs. “I want mate and dulce de leche for my toast,” he mumbles, moving his face until he finds a comfortable position. “If you can promise me that…”

Sergio makes a face, brushing his lips against Messi’s hair. He knows that somebody is going to see what he ordered and know that something’s up. But at the moment, with Messi curled up against him, heart beating in sync with his? Fuck it. “Mate and dulce de leche it is.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all liked this!! And if you haven't already, please go read LeoDios' newest fic--[It's Not Over](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8975125). It's a tremendously better Sergio/Leo fic, so hopefully between the two of us, we've convinced you this is a worthy ship :)


End file.
